


Devouring The Sun

by Sin_theDiwata



Category: Navathem's End
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, BDSM, Blood and Violence, Child Abandonment, Childhood Trauma, Gang Violence, Gangsters, Gay Sex, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Heavy BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Multi, Other, Poverty, Rough Sex, Threats of Violence, Trauma, Volkov backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sin_theDiwata/pseuds/Sin_theDiwata
Summary: Dmitri Volkov had never felt so enamoured with the way someone’s skin could look, the dips and the curves; the way Takeda Kazuhide’s dark hair fell over those shoulders and onto Dmitri’s face made him want to run his hand from Takeda's neck and back and let those fingers sink right in. He watches the way Takeda's chest moves as he breathes, and wonders how it might taste if he kissed him everywhere.Is this what worship felt like?--A mini series detailing Dmitri Volkov and Takeda Kazuhide's backstory. How they met, how they began, how they fell apart.CW Volkov's backstory is pretty rough. TL;DR he gets kidnapped to be sold to slavery. I try to not put in a whole lot of details into his early suffering, but in case that is triggering, please don't go forward and maybe skip to Chapter 2.To anyone reading this that has no idea what "Navathem's End" is, it's a tabletop rpg that I made. This is some backstory for a couple of my key NPCs for the campaigns I run.
Relationships: Dmitri Volkov / Takeda





	Devouring The Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Navathem's End](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/706261) by Sin Posadas, Pam Punzalan. 



> Hello, Chapter 1 is centered mostly on Volkov's backstory and his survival. As stated in the summary, he gets kidnapped here. if that's not something you like and if you think you may get triggered by that, please don't keep reading. Skip to chapter 2 instead.

**Chapter 1: Don’t Call Me Pretty**   
  
Dmitri Volkov had never felt so enamoured with the way someone’s skin could look, the dips and the curves; the way Takeda Kazuhide’s dark hair fell over those shoulders and onto Dmitri’s face made him want to run his hand from Takeda's neck and back and let those fingers sink right in. He watches the way Takeda's chest moves as he breathes, and wonders how it might taste if he kissed him everywhere.

Is this what worship felt like?

  
  
\----   
  


The sun never shines in the Eclipse. After all, how could it, underground as it was, away from the falsities of the surface, from the “proper-ness,” the manners, the “culture.” In The Eclipse, the darkness of mankind were laid bare, like a whore spreading their legs for their latest client. Live fast, die young and indebted - that was all the life that Dmitri Volkov ever knew.    
  
Well, no, that’s a lie. Dmitri Volkov used to have a quiet life. He was a young man in a small town in the Continent of the Frost. His village was simple and survived on the caravans that came with their gold, in the game that was hunted from the forest, in the bounty of the fields that farmers like his fathers so diligently tilled the soil for. Back then, Dmitri Volkov was but a simple boy who wished to teach his hands leatherwork and make good on his promise with his two fathers and two mothers that he would care for them when they grew old. They knew him as “Pel.” A sweet boy. A gentle child. Quite handsome, too   
  
Too handsome. That was why they took him, after all. They nabbed him, while he was out bringing in water from the well. His mother had been craving a particular dish that requires cold water from the well. Rosina,  _ Chronicler bless her _ , had been pregnant for a few months now and the cravings had kicked in. So, of course, when Dmitri’s father had gently cupped his cheek and asked him if he would go get water from the well, despite the hour in the night, had complied, like a good kid. 

They began to wonder for hours why their boy hadn’t returned. But then they found nothing but a bucket, the water spilled and freezing over, by the well. 

You see, pretty young men like “Pel” were perfect for these snatchers. It did not help that Pel had grown up with skin that flushed pink in the cold and eyes as crystal blue as the sky. Pretty boys like that were sometimes stolen from their own beds by snatchers like the wretched ones that took him and sold in auctions for cheap labor, to be house servants, to be worked to the bone for a “debt” they wouldn’t even have a chance at paying. Stories like these were what parents told their children to keep them from wandering out too late at night and all his young life, Pel had thought they were just distant tales of horror.   
  
It’s always a horror story until it happens to you.   
  
The next thing he knew, Pel was puking over a bucket as the seas rocked the ship and his insides. They were being smuggled to a “distant world,” the snatchers had said. Probably to cover their tracks. They were hidden amongst cargo, him and a few other scared, pretty young ones like him.    
  
“Why me,” he had groaned to himself as he wept into the bucket, hands tied behind him.    
  
“Why?” said this young girl that said her name was Dalia. Her hair was bright like fire but her eyes were dead. “Because you’re pretty, like me--”   
  
And Pel had never hated himself more in that moment. He hated that word. “Pretty.”   
  
“--and like me, you couldn’t fight.” she said as she ran her hands gently on Pel’s back to help him manage the seasickness.   
  
Pel doesn’t remember how long they were “cargo.” All he remembers is it was unbearable. It felt like a dream to finally be on land, but he was still in chains. This time, he, Dalia and the rest were stuffed into the back of caravan wagons huddled together as the rain bore down on the thin tarp around them, while their captors slept soundly in tents that smelled like grilled meat, mashed potatoes-- all things that Pel doesn’t even remember the taste of anymore, because all he’s had in his mouth is the taste of dirt, hardtack, water, and the iron from his blood. If he was being sold because he was pretty, why did it seem like these captors didn’t mind letting him go to waste? How pretty would he be by the time they’d get to the auctions? Nobody would buy him now… which meant he’d never be able to escape--   
  
_ Hush, Pel _ .  _ No use thinking like that now.  _

In the few times that he’d get to peek his head out of the caravan, he had begun to notice that the place they travelled through changed as the days passed. When they first stepped off the ship, the place seemed like a dreary, small, port town, where people happily took money in exchange for their silence. It rained endlessly as they travelled further. To which direction? He wasn’t sure. He got to glance on the compass of one of the Snatchers before and saw that they were heading east. But… east of what? Where were they even?   
  
After the humidity of those first few days came the sweltering heat. When Pel peeked it seemed like there was a desert upon the horizon. He thought long about his home that was always covered in snow. This was so different. He’d never felt pain like this - in his joints, in his head. The heat seemed to rob him of any sort of sense. He remembers vaguely having a fever and how the Snatchers scolded him for that.    
  
“Don’t fucking hurt him--” said one of the Snatchers. “Are you fucking serious? That kid’s the prettiest in the bunch. Scar his face and we won’t get our coin’s worth.”   
  
_ There it is again. That word.  _   
  
Dalia feeding him water throughout the trip probably saved him. 

The auction house was odd and it was in what seemed to be an old mansion repurposed just for that. Pel, along with Dalia and all the rest of the kids that survived scrunched up their noses. It smelled like dust. In what should have been a ballroom, there was a small makeshift stage. Odd chairs were stacked up against the walls. There were dusty oil paintings of what Pel guessed were dead, old farts. Then, they were brought to what seemed like a dining hall and they were asked to sit as a small feast was laid upon them.    
  
“Eat,” said one of the Snatchers, gesturing to the scrumptious looking food. But all the children could do was stare at their captor. “Eat or I’ll drive a knife through all your mouths.”   
  
And they did.    
  
Pel watched as their Snatchers seemed to be in deep talk with some other… people. The auctioneers, he guessed.    
  
“Is this when they start preparing us?” Dalia asked, looking at the dirt under her nails.    
  
“Seems so.”   
  
“Where are we even,” she said, looking at the chandelier above them with its swinging jewels that reflected the light all over them.    
  
“I don’t know but--” Pel bit his lip as he watched their captors exchange what he guessed were bags of gold with the auctioneers. “It seems we’ve been sold.”   
  
He looked towards Dalia and the rest.    
  
Is this all there was now? Would they be plumped up, prettied up, dressed in silks and ruffles while a man with a loud voice calls out their numbers? How much would they cost? How much would “pretty” cost these people?   
  
“Dalia,” he started. “Let’s escape.”   
  
Dalia stared at Pel for a moment. She told him he was crazy, but he was very sure that Dalia was just as desperate to get out of this as he was. Sure there was no security with this plan. Where would they go? Where would they find food? How would they live? But maybe there’s something else out there.   
  
“I don’t where we will escape to, but I need to get out. You need to get out - we all do,” and his voice sounds like its pleading now. His eyes shake, his lips quiver. “Say you’ll do it with me.”   
  
And for the first time in weeks, Dalia’s eyes were no longer dead.    
  
“I’m scared, Pel,” she said, shaking, holding his hands in her small, pale fingers. Pel’s hands were freckled, gentle. Too sweet to be sold to some old fuck in this goddamn city.    
  
“So, let’s go. So you never have to be scared again.”

What ever sense of courage Pel had to get Dalia to agree to escape with him seemed to be draining out of him as things went on. They eventually learned that the auction was to happen in about 3-4 days, depending on the weather. Judging from how the Sun was so bright in the sky, though, there was no doubt in Pel’s mind that the auction would go on. So it had to be. It had to happen. They would escape with the rest of the kids, run as far as their feet could take them. Pray to the Core 7 that their souls could find somewhere warm to sleep, somewhere nice to stay -- a way back home.   
  
Speaking of prayer, Pel has never been one to pray. His mothers and fathers never quite taught him how to, never quite felt the need to venerate. True that in his old home’s town square, there stood a statue to The Rose, a woman named Galda Purefist, who gave her life to the rebellion against the Chaos. It was this beautiful brass statue of a woman with her hair windswept, her form graceful. In her hands was a rose, made of gold, tinged pink.    
  
But he knew why people prayed. Because adversity was as terrifying as it was lonely. By praying, he assumed, that people might find some sort of… safe harbor.   
  
A safe harbor wasn’t all he needed right now, however. What he needed more of was a miracle. Something like in those fantastical stories his mothers read to him before bed and his fathers regaled him with as they played in the fields. An act of the gods. A blessed moment. A turning point.  _ Something. _   
  
“O dearest Rose, please give me  _ something,”  _ he said to himself as he clasped his hands together and wondered if this were prayer. “I’m terrified. I don’t want to be here.”   
  
Silence bathed him in his own anxieties.    
  
“Let me be a dog on the run, I’d rather be a lost soul than a servant in some terrible lord’s manor. Let me steal bread forever than have to serve it at someone else’s feet,” he begged, held his hands so tight together that it might bruise.    
  
“But let Dalia and the rest run safe,” and tears began to prick in his eyes. “Can that be a good exchange? Let the world hate me, let them run free.”

“I wish to be free but I wish for the others to be safe. I miss my home and the eyes of my mothers, the safe arms of my fathers. And I’m sure that they, too, have loves to return to,” he closed his eyes and expected some sort of deliverance… but it didn’t come.   
  
He slept that night fearing the rays of the morning.   
  
The day that followed was filled with pleasant, albeit supervised “fun.” They were let out onto the yard to play, given books to read, good food to eat. But the auctioneers were always at the edge of sight, watching, like gargoyles. 

When the afternoon fell, they were ferried into baths, scrubbed down until their skin felt raw. Unruly hair was brushed out and brushed down with wax and mousse. For the first time in so long, Pel actually recognized himself in the mirror. The creams that the auctioneers silently wiped onto his skin made him seem less pallid - happy, even. More lies. It disturbed him keenly, how they were being made clean for the auction - like dressing chicken before throwing it in the oven. 

But unbeknownst to their captors, the children already had a plan. 

By the time the people started funneling into the manor, their carriages crowding outside the grounds, and their asses sitting themselves down upon the chairs arranged around the stage, the children were all lined up in another room just adjacent to the ballroom. One of them, a pretty hazel-eyed and freckle-faced boy told them that there must at least be 30 people in the ballroom already.    
  
“So, lots of them really do this, huh?” Pel whispered, careful so that the auctioneers don’t hear.    
  
“Seems so,” Said Mynah, the hazel-eyed boy.    
  
“Disgusting,” he spat and Dalia nudged his side.    
  
“They’ll hear you,” she hissed at him. Pel grimaced.    
  
It wasn’t long before the auction began. Everyone in the audience wore masks and so did the auctioneers. Only the children bore their own faces. The first to be auctioned was the smallest of them - little Francheska with her golden curls in blue bows. They dressed her like a child even though she was turning 17 in two weeks. They probably didn’t care. 

It was over before they knew it. Two, three, five bids and she was sold. They couldn’t see who but she came back to Pel and the rest with a bracelet bearing a number equivalent to the amount of coin that she was going to be sold for. Pel saw how much Francheska was close to crying.    
  
“It’s all right,” Pel cooed. “Not long now.”   
Marten was next. Then Faris. Then Elizabeth. Every single one of them had their names replaced with numbers.    
  
Soon, it was Pel’s turn.    
  
His feet carried him to the pedestal and he could feel himself squint under the light that they pointed at him. It was hot in this freshly pressed white blouse that they made him wear. They dressed him smartly, like he was some young scholar, son of a wealthy man of some sort.    
  
_ Very stately _ , he thought to himself. Perhaps they dressed him to appeal to the richer folk’s sensibilities?    
  
“No rich lord would want a dirty servant,” he snarled at himself.   
  
The rest of them watched as Pel came up to the stand. Immediately, bids shot up. He was expensive. It was stunning... all he was doing was bat his lashes at the empty masks in front of him. 

Then, the loud screaming began. This ungodly sound erupted from Pel’s lips. He made his knees buckle, kneel in front of everyone and convulse. There was a visible wave of surprise from the crowd, as they squealed in terror at the horrible display. A lot of them began to get up from their seats.   
  
“The boy’s cursed!” yelled one. “Just like those farmers out in Lumina last week! They’ve all got it out here!”    
  
Meanwhile, Pel continued to put on the show, acting like he was possessed, letting his eyes roll to the back of his head. The auctioneers panicked.    
  
Just then, more screaming rang out amongst the children.   
  
“They’re all cursed!”   
  
“How dare you try to trick us into buying cursed merchandise!”   
  
“Call a Spirit-chaser!”   
  
Chaos broke out. The auctioneers ushered Pel back in with the other screaming children into a different room to pacify their clients. They could hear their muffled, pathetic attempts at trying to keep them there, to maybe still sell the children. It was disgusting. All they wanted was the money.    
  
“Are you all right?” Dalia said, reaching up for Pel’s face as soon as the auctioneer slammed the door on them.   
  
“I’m all right. Let’s get those windows open,” he said, with just a shadow of a smile.    
  
It did not take long. They had been spending time loosening the rust on the shut windows to make it easier to break open on the day of their escape. Small efforts. Loosening a few screws here and there. Choosing how to put it in place so that the auctioneers wouldn’t suspect a thing. Soon, they were carefully climbing out of the windows and onto the yard.    
  


They had all just managed to escape into the yard when they hard the voices of the auctioneers panic upon discovering that their “precious merchandise” had disappeared.    
  
“Run! Faster!” Pel hissed, practically pushing people to dash for the woods. They didn’t know what sort of world awaited them beyond the forest, but they had to try.    
  
Gunshots rang in their ears as they tried to not think of how tired their feet were. The woods were thick and it was not easy to keep quiet as they escaped. The more they ran, the more it seemed like the sounds of their pursuers were growing closer. 

“There!” said Dalia, pointing towards what looked like the stables of another rich man’s manor. “We can hide in there.”   
  
“Are you mad, what if there’s people there?” Pel said, holding Faris’ thin wrist, pulling him along as they ran.    
  
“We can beg them to save us, I don’t know. All I know is that running out in the open is futile.”   
  
They had somehow crossed from the “mansion’s yard” into another manor’s grounds. Pel wondered if that were just the thing here between nobles. So much to own that lines blur between neighbors.    
  
But Dalia was right. They needed to hide. They’d beg for their life later; one step at a time.    
  



End file.
